Late Fame

by Arthur Schnitzler

  He sat at his desk, adjusted the lamp and opened one of the copies. How long it had been since he last looked inside! The edges were yellowed, the type seemed old-fashioned. He began to read. The first verses were unfamiliar. But as he read only a little further on, his memory stirred to life. It was as if some familiar music were coming closer and closer. And soon not so much as a word was unknown to him. He began to declaim under his breath and nodded along the way you do when listening to something you already know.

  So these—these were the Wanderings for which the youth of Vienna had yesterday sent him their thanks. Had he deserved them? He would not have been able to say. The whole sorry life that he had led now passed through his mind. Never had he felt so deeply that he was an old man, that not only the hopes, but also the disappointments lay far behind him. A dull hurt rose up in him. He put the book aside, he could not read on. He had the feeling that he had long since forgotten about himself.

  •

  On the two following afternoons, Saxberger poked through the lower shelves of his bookcase. There he found old periodicals in which poems of his had once appeared, yellowed manuscripts in his own hand and also newspapers in which were printed the verses of youthful peers whose names came back to him only piecemeal. None of them had really made anything of it, none had become well known. And as for him? He had for many years been no more than Saxberger the civil servant, and had thought no more of being anything else. Sometimes he had even looked back on his past life, sometimes thought about his youthful verses as he had about other examples of youthful foolishness; but that he might be a poet was something he had long ago forgotten. He had become almost seventy years old. Life had slipped through his fingers—and not an hour, not a minute of the last three decades had been brightened by the knowledge of not belonging to the others. On the contrary—he had felt he belonged completely to those others. And they, too, all counted him as one of their own, while no one had the slightest inkling of who he really was! Only the young people of Vienna guessed at it—or indeed knew it to be true!

  But where were they, these young people? A full three days had gone by since Wolfgang Meier’s visit. What if he didn’t come back?

  It was a clear, not very cold winter’s evening, and Saxberger went down onto the street; he had swallowed too much dust in his rummaging that afternoon. And gathering dust was all that those things would now do—at least on the face of it. But as he let the general impression the poems had made continue to act on him, he came to think that everything had stayed remarkably fresh, and that no small joie de vivre had flown up to him off those old pages. On reading one or other of the love poems there had even re-emerged, as if out of fog, some pale, sweet face which he had once seen, loved, kissed. Those pale, sweet faces! Where were they today? When he looked at the young girls who were walking past him, it seemed to him, as really it always did, that they were the same ones he had encountered there thirty and forty and fifty years ago. That they were the same ones he had kissed and whose—yes—whose praises he had sung.

  He had reached the Ring at the point where many streets meet, where the Votive Church stands in airy gray, where the racket of all the carriages clatters together and great streams of people flow into one another. Suddenly he was standing in front of Herr Wolfgang Meier, who swept his hat off very low in front of him.

  “What a delight,” said Herr Meier, “to have such good luck. May I ask where your path leads?”

  “I’m not heading anywhere in particular,” replied Saxberger, who was very gladdened by this coincidence. “Just left the house to stroll around a little.”

  “Of course,” said Meier, “you must really need that. If you’re breathing in dust from those files all day . . .”

  Saxberger wanted to retort that today’s dust had not actually come from files, but he had the feeling that he himself should not join Meier in talking about these things.

  “Would you allow me, my esteemed Herr Saxberger, if it wouldn’t disturb you, to join your stroll?”

  “Please do, it would be a pleasure.”

  “May I ask how you’ve spent the past few days?”

  “Thank you, I’ve been very well. And what have you been doing? But yes! I still have to thank you for the poems you sent and for your kind inscription . . . I was very pleased, very pleased—” Saxberger had finished what he was saying, but Meier stayed silent, expecting to hear something about his poems. For the time being, Saxberger did not speak either. It did him good to have a young poet taking a walk by his side and waiting for his praise.

  So the two of them carried on in silence for a whole half-minute, until Meier said: “And may I ask whether my modest verses were fortunate enough to meet with your approval?” His gaze deferentially sought Saxberger’s.

  The older man stopped walking and nodded.

  “Certainly they met with my approval. Very fine I thought they were. Yes, I liked them very much.

  “I hope,” said Meier, “that your opinion isn’t based on any charitable—”

  “Oh no,” interrupted Saxberger, becoming ever surer of himself as he carried on speaking, “I’m not being at all charitable; if I didn’t like them, I would tell you straight out.” He distinctly felt that he was gaining a greater and greater ascendancy over the younger man.

  Meier said that he had started to write an epic and began to go into the details. An unease came over Saxberger. He was bored. He hardly listened to the young man, but when Meier paused he declared, “It’s very interesting material, yes, you really must carry it through.”

  Meier thanked him for this encouragement and added: “If you only knew how much has been said about you at our table on recent evenings.”

  Saxberger’s unease vanished at once. The young man had finally decided to go back to speaking about him. That was what had been missing. And, smiling comfortably, he asked:

  “Well, what have you been saying about me? Did you give them my regards?”

  “I did indeed. I also permitted myself to announce the existence of your play . . .”

  “Oh, you really needn’t have done that,” said Saxberger, still smiling.

  “You mean because it’s been lost? I’m convinced that if you just think it over for a while, you’ll definitely put your finger on where it can be found.”

  “Well, if you’d like to know: it already has been found.”

  “Ah!”

  “Yes, it was lying in a drawer of my desk.”

  “And you had no idea?”

  “Of course I had no idea. After all, it’s been a long time since I was a writer!” And as he said that, he felt as if he were making a joke.

  They had reached the Burgtor. Meier came to an abrupt halt and said, “Might I remind you of how you generously agreed to spend a little time with our circle? If you say yes, we can turn in here and go straight to the coffee house, where at this time of day we’re sure to find some of my friends. Oh, please say yes! We would feel very honored.”

  Saxberger believed that he had to make some objections. “Now?” he said. “But it must be almost eight.” He looked at the clock. “Yes, it’s already eight! That’s when respectable people,” he added with a smile, “are already—going to a restaurant.”

  “Oh, Herr Saxberger,” countered Meier, “please don’t brush my request aside. I think it’s lovely that things today have come together so easily.”

  And soon they were heading across the Burgplatz towards the Old Town. Meier talked exuberantly and prepared Saxberger for the joyful surprise with which his friends would react to seeing him walk in with the poet of the Wanderings. Saxberger was excited. Entering a gathering where his presence represented a particular honor was something that had never happened to him before. When he arrived at his office, naturally his subordinates stood up—though that was only the politeness you had to show the boss. And at his usual communal table in the restaurant, he was no longer just some anonymous customer; sitting and having a drink together night after night h
ad smoothed over certain differences in education that did undoubtedly exist between him and most of the others.

  They stood at the door to the old Viennese coffee house. Saxberger knew it. He remembered that he had visited it from time to time in years gone by. Meier opened the door and let the elderly gentleman go in first. The low, vaulted room was quite full and the air was almost oppressively thick and smoky.

  In a larger room to which the first one connected, people were playing billiards. Saxberger stopped briefly at the entrance to let his young companion go ahead. “Here they are,” said Meier, and indicated a table by a recessed window not far from the door, where three young men were sitting.

  “Good evening,” said Meier. And, as he turned towards Saxberger, he introduced: “Herr Winder, Herr Christian, Herr stud. phil. Blink; Herr”—he paused—“Saxberger.”

  In that instant the young people’s faces, which had until then been merely a little curious, transformed into expressions of happy satisfaction. They stood up and one, the pale little blond boy who had been introduced as Winder, moved his chair across for Saxberger and fetched himself another from a neighboring table. When he had sat down, he gazed at the old gentleman in naive admiration while the two others, friendly and slightly embarrassed, seemed to study the physiognomy of their new guest.

  Meier continued: “Yes, I bring you the poet of the Wanderings and here, esteemed maestro, here you have the pride and hope of Young Vienna.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, gentlemen,” said Saxberger. “It means I can thank you in person for the compliments you sent through your representative.” And he glanced at Meier as if at an intimate friend of many years.

  “It’s a great honor to welcome you into our midst,” said Blink.

  “By giving you the names of these gentlemen, Herr Saxberger,” said Meier, “I haven’t told you very much. This man here”—and he gestured at Christian, who was very young and who, with his long hair, errant tie and somewhat unsteady eyes, most distinctly embodied the old stock figure of an “artist”—“he writes plays, mainly histories in five acts.”

  Christian interrupted. “They’re not always in five acts, and they’re not always histories. I write whatever the urge takes me to. It’s just that it usually takes me to write history plays. I write what I have to. And that just tends to be history plays.”

  “My dear friend,” said Meier, “that’s exactly what I said. This man, on the other hand”—and he gestured at Blink, who was quite ugly and had a thin black beard and short-cropped hair—“is really more of a critic than a writer.”

  “I’m solely a critic,” interjected Blink, who was still holding the newspaper in his hand and generally gave the impression that he would re-immerse himself in his reading as soon as there was something in the conversation he didn’t like.

  “Ah, you’re a reviewer,” said Saxberger, and looked upon him benevolently.

  “Yes,” Blink replied with force. “But I beg you not to confuse me with the other reviewers.”

  Saxberger, to whom, for various reasons, that idea had never occurred, was rather taken aback by this statement.

  “And this gentleman,” said Meier, indicating little Winder with a shrewd look, “this gentleman is a child and writes . . . everything.”

  “Ah,” said Saxberger, laughing, and turned to this young person, who was sitting there very bashfully with one leg folded over the other and his hands crossed on his knee. “You write everything?”

  “Yes,” said Winder, and looked dazedly around the coffee house.

  Just then there appeared at the door a very small, neglectfully dressed man who, as he saw someone unfamiliar sitting at the table, hesitated to come closer. But Meier noticed him at once and waved him over. “Come on,” he said. The small man moved nearer with barely disguised mistrust.

  “Albert Staufner, Herr Saxberger,” said Meier. Staufner bowed curtly and said, as if he hadn’t heard correctly, “Saxberger?”

  “The poet of the Wanderings,” Meier explained with some irritation.

  “Aha!” said the small man, and nodded several times. Then, still in his winter coat and with his hat still on his head, he sat down at the neighboring table, but turned towards the others and said, “You know what?”

  “Well?” they asked.

  “I’ve been running around town all afternoon, I’ve been thinking about us, and something has to be done”—these phrases bubbled rapidly out of him.

  “What has to be done?” asked Blink, who had put the newspaper down on his lap.

  “People have to hear about us, people have to know about us. No one knows anything about us, not a soul bothers about us. The newspapers take no notice of us. Who’s heard of Christian? No one! Who’s heard of Meier? No one! Who’s heard of Blink? No one! Who’s heard of me? No one!”—Little Winder had expected to be named, too, and had become very uncomfortable at the prospect. He had almost been afraid. But now that he had been overlooked, he was put out after all.

  “But how can anyone have heard of you?” said Meier. “You’ve never published anything.”

  “What use is publishing? Your poems are out at the moment—who gives a damn about them?”

  “My ‘Zenobia’ should be published very soon,” said Christian.

  “And will anyone read it? No!” cried Staufner. “But it’s not for nothing that I’ve spent all day rushing around. I’ve worked everything out. The whole program. Because who but us is ever going to do anything to help? Who’s ever heard of our ‘Enthusiasm’ society? We have to put something on. We have to put on readings.”

  “And who’s ever going to go to them?” said Blink.

  “You swine,” shouted Staufner, springing to his feet.

  Blink just laughed curtly. He seemed used to this kind of outburst. Saxberger was astounded.

  “That’s a stupid objection,” continued Staufner, sitting down again. “And what’ll ever get done if we go on like that among ourselves. Just take a look at them!” And he pointed at a table in the other corner of the room where, to Saxberger’s surprise, no one was sitting.

  “They understand how it works, they’re promoting themselves! That one there”—and he pointed at an empty chair—“is about to have a play produced. And what are they? Nothing! All of them put together are nothing. They aren’t people with ideals! Careerists is what they are, followers of literary fashion. No one pays any attention to what we do because we’ve struck out away from the beaten track and because we have ideals, something that’s not appreciated nowadays. That’s why I’ve drawn up a program. I say all this in front of you, Herr Saxberger, because I know you are one of our own. You wrote the Wanderings, and the man who wrote the Wanderings is one of us.”

  Saxberger was completely dumbfounded by this unexpected turn in the conversation. Until then he had had the impression that this young man knew absolutely nothing about him.

  He nodded and said, “Oh, don’t worry. Please speak freely.”

  “Yes,” exclaimed Staufner, “I can see that my words interest you. And I always say, if you want to drum up interest in an idea, you should go to the old people. The young ones see everyone who’s coming up as just another new rival. I’ll talk you through my program and reflect on your advice, Herr Saxberger.”

  “But listen,” responded the old gentleman, “I really don’t think you’re addressing yourself to the right person. I know so little about these things—yes, truly—I’m a quite uneducated person.” He smiled at these words.

  “I will permit myself to send you my ‘Zenobia,’” said Christian.

  “What do we care about your ‘Zenobia’?” cried Staufner.

  “It wasn’t to you that I promised it,” Christian replied heatedly. Meier soothed them by saying: “Boys, boys!”

  “We’ll come to your plays later,” said Staufner, a little more mildly, “but a lot later. I’ve already thought about it. We won’t have any use for plays in our recital evening. It’ll be a question of ver
se and of the novella. So . . .”

  And he began to count up a list of names and to sketch out the program.

  Saxberger listened with interest. Around him was an atmosphere of hope, youth, self-confidence, and he breathed it in deeply. As the discussion became ever more impassioned, some of the words they were using began to sound familiar to him: words he had heard many years ago, perhaps even said himself, words he had thought of from time to time over the course of the passing years as if of something opaque or daydreamt, and which were now flying back and forth between these young people as if the words themselves had become young and alive once again. And it seemed to him that he belonged among these people. As if much of what they said of themselves was true also of him and as if he, too, still had battles to fight as they did. And as they, after a long to-and-fro, pressed his hand in parting and asked him to honor their group with his presence again as soon as he could, he declared that he had felt quite at home and would not fail to do just that. Outside the door they all said goodbye to the old gentleman and Meier offered to walk him some of the way home.

  For a while they were both silent. Then Meier began: “May I ask, Herr Saxberger, how you liked it with us?”

  “I liked it very much,” replied Saxberger.

  “Well,” responded Meier, “it wasn’t quite the proper thing tonight. And there were some people missing whom you would find very agreeable, like Friedinger, for example.”

  “Ah, you want to present something of his at your recital, don’t you?”

  “Yes. And then Bolling the actor, who is going to help out as well.”